


The Upper Hand

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Incest, Implied Sibling Incest, Incest, M/M, Sherlock is a Tease, Sibling Incest, Teasing, Underage - Freeform, holmescest, mylock, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7820785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your fraternal concern is, as ever, heartwarming,” Sherlock mumbled as he dropped down into the roll-back sofa beside the fireplace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Upper Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless smutty Holmescest. I still love this general idea. Wrong, perhaps, but I DGAF.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, watching Sherlock walk into the study with his shirt bloodied and his face red and swollen. His nose had been bleeding at some point, but was now stemmed by, presumably, the scabbing it was covered in. “What happened to you?” 

Sherlock let his book bag fall to the floor. He looked up at Mycroft, sitting at the piano looking for all the world like he might play it. “Sincerely, you care?” 

Mycroft snorted and looked down at his hands, watching himself as he opened the key cover on the piano and exposed the black and ivory beneath it. “No, but I hate not knowing.” 

“Your fraternal concern is, as ever, heartwarming,” Sherlock mumbled as he dropped down into the roll-back sofa beside the fireplace. 

“So who was it this time? Andrew Hickton, James Lucas. Oh, no, I bet it was Michael Fortinbras!” Mycroft wiggled his eyebrows and looked up at Sherlock again, his face display clearly the distaste he felt for his brother’s relaxed position on the couch - long legs spread, one thrown over the arm of the sofa whilst the other was hooked over the edge of the seat, with his foot resting on the floor. “I heard you gave his little brother creeps by asking him if you could borrow some of his semen.” 

“I did not ask him that!” Sherlock spat venomously. “I asked him for blood. Besides, it wasn’t Fortinbras.” 

Mycroft forced eight fingers down onto random keys, thumbs extended, in an annoyed physical display toward his brother. “Then who, brother mine, because it is clear by the gleaming bruises and possibly broken nose that it was not the lunch hall door?” 

Sherlock stared at Mycroft for a moment, watching him as he let his fingers hover over the keys of the piano, not daring to attempt the music he used to play. Sherlock often wondered if Mycroft had deleted music, much like he deleted mathematics as soon as he left the classes every day. “Mister Thompson.” 

Mycroft’s face hardened and he closed the cover over the keys. “A teacher hit you?” He got to his feet, pushing the stool back across the wooden floor with the backs of his knees, and walked around the piano to stand a few feet away from his brother. “Then you must have deserved it.” 

“Who deserves to be beaten in the face by a school teacher?” Sherlock asked, glaring up at Mycroft. He drew his leg down from the arm of the sofa and pushed himself up with his hands, sitting a little straighter in the chair. He drew his legs up and curled up against himself, hooking his arms around his skinny ankles. 

“I don’t believe it.” Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest and rested against the piano. He drew his right foot over his left and balanced. 

“Then don’t believe it, your validation is of no concern to me.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“You’re fifteen years old, Sherlock. Behaving like a juvenile is becoming stale and, frankly, our parents are beginning to suspect you might have sociopathic tendencies.” Mycroft huffed a bored sigh. He unfolded his arms and straightened up. “Go to your room; I’ll clean up your face.” 

“No - I rather like the ‘devil may care’ look.” Sherlock pushed a false smile to his lips. 

Mycroft nodded, “As I’m sure you do. But you look disgusting, you smell disgusting and if Mummy sees you, she’ll play hell.” 

“Wouldn’t that be a turn up for the books.” Sherlock intoned. He loosed his hands and pushed himself up to his feet. Face to face, the brothers were almost the same height, despite Sherlock having some years of growth left in him. Mycroft wondered if he would grow much more at all, mind you. 

“Go to your room,” Mycroft ordered. “I’ll get the first aid box from the bathroom press.” 

 

 

When Mycroft stepped into Sherlock’s bedroom, he found Sherlock half-dressed, changing into a clean shirt and trousers. He cleared his throat, announcing his arrival, and pushed Sherlock’s wide-open bedroom door closed behind him. He set the first aid box down onto the half height dresser that ran under Sherlock’s front window, managing to find a spot in the jumble of books and the not-too-carefully balanced case for his violin. 

“Sit on the bed,” Mycroft ordered, folding back the sleeves of his blue shirt. 

“One minute,” Sherlock mumbled, his chin pressed into his chest as he looked down at his trousers, pulling the belt tight around his slim waist. Satisfied his trousers were held in place, Sherlock straightened his head, rolling his neck a little to feel it click, and buttoned his clean shirt up, but for the two top buttons. He followed Mycroft’s instructions and sat on the foot of his unmade bed. “If you hurt me, I’ll hurt you back.” 

Mycroft smirked, his back to Sherlock, thankfully, disguised the mirth. He turned, his hands containing cotton wool balls and TCP. “And if Mummy sees the state of your face, she’ll hurt us both. So put up with it, brother mine.” 

Mycroft set his stash of cotton balls onto the bed beside Sherlock and cracked open the bottom of TCP. He tossed the lid down and picked up one of the wool balls. He covered the opening of the bottle with the ball and tipped it up, half soaking the wool. “Hold this.” He instructed, pushing the bottle into Sherlock’s hand. “This will sting.” He warned as he began to lightly swipe the dampened wool swab around Sherlock’s nose. The smell was intoxicating and the almost immediate jump Sherlock gave told Mycroft that the site was tender. Until it became clear he was just smearing Sherlock’s blood around his face, he swept the wool across the dried blood to clean it away, carefully beginning to build up a collection of used, blood-covered cotton balls that fell into the groove of the mattress where Sherlock’s bottom dipped the bed in. 

“That hurts…” Sherlock pulled his head back a little, as Mycroft dragged a clean swab across Sherlock’s finally clean nose. 

“It will do.” Mycroft tutted. He reached his free hand up and pulled Sherlock’s head forwards. “Sit still or it’ll hurt more.” He kept his left hand in Sherlock’s curls, holding him still, and continued to dab at his nose with his right. “Are you going to tell me the truth about what happened?” 

“I told you,” Sherlock said, hissing in a breath as Mycroft dabbed at his left nostril firmly. “Mister Thompson hit me.” 

“I don’t believe it, Sherlock.” Mycroft glared down into his eyes. He could see the sprinkling of freckles on Sherlock’s forehead and nasal bridge clearly, a stark contrast to his pale skin, reddened slightly from the rubbing clean, and purple by his right eye from a growing bruise. 

“Well, it’s true. I called him a ho-ouch!-homosexual, and he introduced my face to his fist, and his desk.” Sherlock frowned. He closed his eyes as Mycroft’s left hand tugged his curls by way of torture to keep him still. 

“You called him a homosexual?” Mycroft questioned. 

Sherlock hummed. “Well, he is.” 

Mycroft coughed a laugh. “Still, not really the kind of thing one expects people to yell at them.” 

“I didn’t yell it, I just spoke with confidence.” Sherlock corrected. “Stop pulling my hair!” He yelped as Mycroft tugged the handful of curls he had trapped between his fingers, yanking Sherlock’s head back into the spot he wanted it. 

“Then sit still!” Mycroft warned in a low tone. He threw the cotton ball in his right hand down beside the others and drew his left hand from Sherlock’s hair. “There, you’re clean.” He said, fixing the lid back onto the bottle. 

“Why’re you defending him, anyway. You hated him when you were at school, you told me so.” Sherlock said, getting to his feet. He walked to the dressed to peer into the pivotable mirror, tipping it back to examine the damage. 

Mycroft reached for the cotton balls on Sherlock’s bed and launched them into the fireplace to the left of the bed, knowing Sherlock would have it lit later that evening when he was reading in his room. “Oh, I’m not defending him and he’ll be sorry he touched you, that much is true. But you need to learn to control what you say to people, brother mine, or injuries like this are going to be something you and I are patching up on a regular basis.” 

Sherlock regarded Mycroft through the mirror. “You and I?” 

“Can’t expect you to nursemaid yourself, can I? You can barely fasten your shoelaces.” Mycroft stared back into the mirror. 

“I can too fasten my shoelaces,” Sherlock mumbled, turning to face his brother, prodding at his nose in a particularly tender spot. 

“Your mouth will get you into trouble, Sherlock, that is my point.” Mycroft tutted. 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders adolescently. “Perhaps my mouth needs retraining.” 

Mycroft inhaled sharply through his nose and his body stiffened. “Don’t start that.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and schooled his expression into something close to innocent. “Start what?” 

“You know what!” Mycroft warned. “I told you after last time…” 

Sherlock tutted, flicking his wrist at his brother. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it.” 

Mycroft firmed up his shoulders. “Stop it.” He warned. “You’re getting too old for this, Sherlock. It’s about time you realised that we can’t do things like that - there must be boundaries.” 

“Is it simply because of my age?” Sherlock looked at him through long lashes. He pouted. “We can pretend that I’m still thirteen if that helps?” Mycroft’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You can pretend that I still don’t know what my prick is for, show me how to use it.” 

“St…” Mycroft began and stopped abruptly when his voice hitched in his throat. 

Sherlock smiled. “See.” 

“You’re a monster.” Mycroft’s jaw jutted. He marched toward the door and turned the handle. 

“Don’t pretend you’re not going to have a wank now,” Sherlock called out as Mycroft pulled the door open, and added a dirty laugh into the mix. 

Mycroft dragged the door all the way open and walked from the room, crossing the large hallway into his own room, directly across the landing. It would still be his room for a year or so, just until he had found the right home for his own purposes outside of Sussex. He pushed his bedroom door closed sharply, letting it bag in the jamb, and rested back against it once he was inside. Why did he always let him have the upper hand?


End file.
